“What flavor are the green ones?”
“Holocaust. What about the red ones?”
“Tricky, they smell like Jesus H Christ, but taste like moss and almond butter. What about the blue ones?”
“A bitchy bouquet, hints of the national anthem with overtones of the organ solo from roundabout, citrus, bat guano, and bitterroot.”
“How come there aren’t any black ones?”
“I don’t know, maybe the elves eat them all. What do the chartreuse ones taste like?”
“They start like a picnic basket, reedy and woven, swish it around a bit and there’s a whisper of bubonic plague and zealots, and a strong finish of suicide kings and one eyed Jacks. Wait, what color is chartreuse?”
“Greenish yellow, I think.”
“Oh, my bad. The yellow ones taste like lemons.”
“Really?”
“I don’t know they’ve started to taste all the same.”
“Yeah, I know. We should probably stop eating bugs, mom would be pissed.”
“Your mother was a bug.”
“No, yours was.”
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